


Take Your Sweetheart Down To The River

by spockandawe



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Death, Family Issues, Gen, POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Returning Home, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 13:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13249224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: Odin’s death isn’t any sort of surprise. It was always inevitable. And you wouldn’t call it a relief either, nothing so overwrought. It’s something you’ve expected anddeserved,and the most you’re willing to allow is that you’ve been impatient for the day to finally arrive.Your little brothers aren’t exactly a surprise either. It’s only to be expected, that Odin would try toreplaceyou, find some way to do better. And it’s certainly no surprise how soft and unformed they both are. It takes only a moment to size them up, and you can see too much of your father in them both. It’s all the worst, most irritating parts of him, the unthinking bullheaded ignorance of the one, and the sad pathetic unwillingness of the other to stand his ground and own the consequences of his actions.You did miss Odin’s death, but you can’t resist idly toying with the idea of killing some part of him, seeing what satisfaction it brings you.





	Take Your Sweetheart Down To The River

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/169244349986/take-your-sweetheart-down-to-the-river)

Odin’s death isn’t any sort of surprise. It was always inevitable. And you wouldn’t call it a relief either, nothing so overwrought. It’s something you’ve expected and _deserved,_ and the most you’re willing to allow is that you’ve been impatient for the day to finally arrive.

Your little brothers aren’t exactly a surprise either. It’s only to be expected, that Odin would try to _replace_ you, find some way to do _better._ And it’s certainly no surprise how soft and unformed they both are. It takes only a moment to size them up, and you can see too much of your father in them both. It’s all the worst, most irritating parts of him, the unthinking bullheaded ignorance of the one, and the sad pathetic unwillingness of the other to stand his ground and own the consequences of his actions.

You did miss Odin’s death, but you can’t resist idly toying with the idea of killing some part of him, seeing what satisfaction it brings you.

And you set that impulse aside, with some slight regret. Satisfaction must bow to practicality. You could seize the throne through blood and death, it would be _delightful_ to seize the throne through blood and death. But as pathetic as your _darling_ little brothers are, you must assume they’re prime specimens of whatever Odin has reduced Asgard to, and they’ll serve well enough as weapons in your hand until you can reforge your people in war and conquest. Their support might gall, but it will save you time and irritation—

There’s no need to even finish that thought. The one brother, the _stupid_ brother, the one with all of Odin’s self-righteous judgment and none of his cunning— He decides you. Practicality is cast aside and oh, but it will be gratifying to have Odin’s blood truly on your hands after so long denied. You’ve no desire for patience or forgiveness, and after you’ve broken his little toy hammer, it’s plain enough you’ve half-broken _him._

The other brother is more intelligent by far, if also more of a coward. It disgusts you, the weak little echoes of your father they are, soft and _beloved,_ nowhere near Odin’s equal even together, never mind alone. It’s no wonder he clung to life for so long, with only these children left to him to squabble over the throne. _Did he regret,_ you wonder. Did he ever come to regret casting aside his child, the child he’d forged to match and _surpass_ him?

A thought you set aside for another time. Perhaps neither of your brothers is so intelligent after all. The Bifrost—

Perhaps you have grown soft after all, with the emotions that stirs in you. You follow them easily enough, but you’re slow to press your advantage. You’re distracted with thoughts of old memories, old _faces._

Here now is an echo of the Asgard you remember. If your baby brothers represent the strength of its people, the Bifrost is unchanged, a reassuring constant. You don’t get long enough to savor its raw power, a sweet little taste of Asgard and home, before your brothers decide to be idiots again.

It’s almost cute that the one would think his little knives would work on you. Almost. For a split second you consider. If he were truly an infant, toddling after you with a weapon in hand, calling you _sister_ and trying to follow you into war, you could almost be charmed. But that’s been denied to you both. He’s chosen not to follow you now, and has made that abundantly clear. You’ve reached the end of your limited patience. You hurl him into the void.

And then there’s the other, of course. You take a moment longer, trying to decide if you’re charmed he would even try to fight, or irritated that he thinks it would do him any good. They were raised in ignorance, after all. Any pet can be trained, given time, and surely your own family would be able to learn faster than a wolf pup. Hopefully. His face is more Odin’s than you like, but what decides you is the thoughtless entitlement you see in that face, a truer inheritance than any mere _features._ No, you send him to follow his brother.

After that, you spare a few lazy seconds for second thoughts. Perhaps your brothers could have served you well in time— though you can’t deny it feels wonderful to be an only child again. A few minutes of sisterhood was more than enough. You reconsider your decision, but find nothing worth regretting.

In the last few moments of travel, you’re left to your privacy and thoughts of the future. What is left to you, on Asgard? What remains of your home, your land, what survives that Odin did not cast out or conceal? You hope, briefly, but hope will only bring you disappointment. You can depend only on what tools come to hand, not waste yourself on wishes and dreams. You have yourself. That alone is enough weapon for a conquest.

And yet, you can’t help lingering over what—who—the Bifrost brings to mind. _There_ is one tool Odin would never cast aside. You know your father enough to know why, that he’d value Heimdall for his eyes, for his _Si_ _ght,_ that after your father had withdrawn to laze about within the bounds of Asgard, he’d look no further than that. Your memory is better than his, you know what a weapon was in his hands and yours, what purpose that _S_ _ight_ serves in battle, in _war._

You leave the Bifrost expecting the familiar setting of home. You can recall it so perfectly, even after so many centuries away. You were already grown enough to fight at your father’s side when Heimdall came to bend his knee and pledge fealty to the throne. It wasn’t long after before Odin offered him Hofund, and left the Bifrost in the trust of Heimdall and his eyes.

You smile to yourself a little. So little changed across the centuries then that you can hardly imagine it has changed now. His stance, his grip on the sword. He was cast in the perfect mold from the start, and had so little distance to go before achieving true steadfast perfection. You teased him over that, once upon a time. He learned to ignored you in that very particular way he has when he decides the best strategic move is to make no response whatsoever.

My, you _are_ distracted. So distracted it takes you a moment to take in the truth of the sight before you.

 _Not_ Heimdall, _not_ his hands on the sword.

You hardly even look at the men before you, but just a glance is enough to tell you that you have sorely underestimated how far Asgard has deteriorated in your absence. Your brothers were better-forged tools than you would have ever, _ever_ expected, if this is what your home has to offer now.

That alone is infuriating enough, anger so strong it edges on grief for the Asgard that you plainly see has been _lost._ The fact that Heimdall isn’t before you, that you can see no signs of _him_ in the room, nothing at all— Things that you know, you _know_ are particularly counter to how Heimdall would have kept his station, little details that speak plainly that he is not here and has not been here for some time—

And so, when one of the men moves to challenge you, you lose your patience. He puts up even less of a fight than you might have imagined. His companion fares no better. Their deaths are bright little points of satisfaction as you feel their lives wink out, and it does a little to quiet you. You advance on the last man with his death already halfway into your hands, and it would take only the smallest move, the _slightest_ provocation for you to end him as well. But he’s already kneeling, deferent. His eyes cast down. _Good._ It isn’t much of a start, but you’ll rebuild Asgard on whatever foundation you can salvage.

“You look like a smart boy with good survival instincts.”

Heimdall is _gone,_ he tells you. _Banished._ You swallow back the rage and half-listen to the rest of his story. The anger burns in your stomach, enough that you don’t say a word in response as he stumbles through the tale. It’s impressively unclear, even by your rapidly lowering standards, and you’re not entirely certain whether it was Odin who did it or one of the little spoiled princelings. But it sounds altogether too much like your father, to place blind loyalty and obedience over all else. To declare anything else treason, no matter if it served his own goals, if he can further his other interests through that betrayal.

 _Not only you,_ some part of you whispers. It wasn’t only you that was judged unworthy and cast aside. Does it soothe your ego, that it was not only a single sword forged by Odin, that he chose to forsake? But you can credit yourself that you were a _danger_ to him. You were strong, you were clever, you knew his weakness and his folly. Heimdall—

You fought beside Heimdall for long enough to know him loyal almost to the point of foolishness, _honorable_ certainly to the point of foolishness. You might have known men who were more idealistic, but they did rather tend to die young. Heimdall lived and fought and served, and that loyalty and honor were his greatest virtues and the deepest wedge driven between you. You left him behind when you reached the breaking point with Odin, because you could not force him to choose you, and you _would_ not see him choose your father. And you still don’t know whether he recognized that in your actions or not, because you never saw him again.

At least you know you did not see him when your father sent the Valkyrior to fight you back. You would have grieved to kill him, but you would would not have stayed your hand.

You tell yourself you would not have stayed your hand. You spared one Valkyrie, and told yourself it was only because she was wounded, inconsequential, nothing to do with memories of playing together as girls or the look on her face as you killed her lover.

Distractions. You interrupt Skurge with, “Where is he?”

He stumbles over his words. “I— That is— Nobody really knows. The king sent soldiers to search the city and countryside, but they didn’t find him. Not too surprising what with him knowing the Bifrost and seeing ’em coming for him and all that, and if you ask me—”

Off he goes on another incoherent almost-story. It’s very nearly charming.

All-Seeing Heimdall. He wouldn’t have left Asgard. You credit yourself that you know him at least that well. Your father wanted to change, your father forced Asgard to change, but Heimdall… He grew into a man and settled into his proper shape and has been a constant ever since. Whatever Odin did in your absence, Heimdall might have followed, but you can’t imagine your father persuading him to _change._

He will know that you are here. You remember back when you were barely grown. _All-Seeing Heimdall,_ you asked, _what do you See?_ Where he looks has nothing to do with what he Sees, you know that better than most, but you still stayed where you were waiting for him to turn and face you. _Tell me what you See,_ you pressed.

He was calm and level as he looked you over, as young as he was, and his only answer was, _Death._

You remember how delighted your laughter was.

And even then, you didn’t quite understand. You aren’t sure even his mothers understood the way he Sees _,_ and he was always so reserved that teasing the words out of him quickly became one of your favorite games. You are _Death_ beyond the reaches of your body, _Death_ enough that he sees the shape of you only in hands and touch, your nature taking up the whole of his Sight. _Death_ enough that he can pick you out even in the thick of a battlefield, where there is death aplenty to be found. There, he tells you, you _are_ Death, the center of a storm, leaving destruction and corpses in your wake.

When you sparred with him you were able to share a few of your secrets, and when you kissed him and guided his hands to your waist, you were able to share more. You showed him everything he could not See, from little frivolous nothings like the fall of your hair all the way through those most private, personal points of pride, like the strength of your sword-arm and the scars you collected in your father’s service. He took it all in with an expression as grave and solemn as the expression he wore when he sent you and your armies forth on conquest, or when he kept watch over Asgard, and when you came to visit him at his station, he would smile faintly and listen, and pet Fenris as you talked.

You drag yourself from those memories. You set this all behind you centuries ago. You are as you ever were, and you knew when you were cast out that Odin sought to change everything you left behind. If Heimdall returns as he was— Then you will think upon it when it happens, and you will not let yourself depend on it until then. You cannot. These are only remembrances of the past, you tell yourself, not your hopes for the future.

Still, Heimdall will See you here, he will See Odin gone, he will See his station open to him again— You _will not_ let yourself depend on those memories. But he _will_ See.

At least as you draw near to the far end of the bridge, you have more to distract you than Skurge’s stories. You rather think the poor boy is starting to run out of steam.

And here, you are in your element. Standing in front of an army, speaking to them, directing them. _Commanding_ them. It is a bit of a change having them point their weapons at _you,_ you must allow. And yet. Odin is dead. His sons are dead. You are and have ever been his firstborn. Hela Odinsdottir. Your father may have locked you away and stricken your name from Asgard’s history, but this _is_ your birthright.

They don’t listen. It’s tragic, really, but not enough to give you pause. You gauge the strength of Asgard’s armies by this fight, and your dismay over their skill far outweighs any feelings you might have had over their deaths. Only one decent blow struck against you, and not one significant enough to give you pause. Scarcely a few seconds of support from the airships before you eliminated them. A frightful lack of imagination on the part of individual soldiers _or_ strategy from whatever idiot directed them in the first place.

For that reason, you sigh with a little melancholy as you step over their corpses and proceed to your palace.

And you have to admit, that makes the prospect of bringing the rest of your soldiers to heel somewhat unappealing. You much prefer the tense silence before a battle, to stand before your men and feel their trust, fear, and respect all pinned on you as you speak. To harness that energy and forge it into another weapon at your side, _feeling_ them give themselves to you, taking the weight of duty that will come with their deaths, and persuading them of the victory that is to come.

Not quite the same as having to stand before them and argue that the throne that was _yours_ before they were ever born does in truth belong to you.

You suppose that to lead Asgard into a new age of conquest, you must settle the land first. A tedious chore, when you are used to commanding and being _obeyed._ Another reminder that you might have spared your brothers. That if you had persuaded them to bend the knee, they might have harnessed these armies for you with no fuss at all, declared your legitimacy, paved your way to the throne. And you might have seen all that remains of Odin’s blood, your two soft little infant brothers, bow their heads as you take your rightful place, as you have deserved to do for centuries.

On the other hand, _killing_ all that remains of Odin is its own sweet satisfaction, and one you would be hard-pressed to match. No, there is still no reason to regret killing either of them.

Your thoughts turn to the All-Mother. Mother to those two dead princes, you assume, unless Odin set her aside in the years since. You rather doubt that. She was as strong in her way as your father was, with all the constancy that he lacked. Odin was at least self-aware enough to value that in her. And she was mother enough to you, even though _you_ were his daughter long before _she_ was his consort, almost a woman grown when she came to your household.

She was there when you were recognized as Odin’s firstborn and heir. She sheltered and taught you, and even took your part against Odin some few times. Will she go so far as to deny your birthright? You lazily paint yourself a mental picture of how this might play out. You, a warrior, a commander, a queen, leading your armies forth to lay waste and carve Asgard’s place out in the world again. And the All-Mother to stay here, quiet and domestic. She set aside her sword long before you took yours up, and never seemed to regret leaving that life behind her. You can imagine her taking care of the tedium of _rule_ whenever you are pulled away by the song of _war._ If she will take your part now, you will make your peace with her readily enough.

Though then you realize with a little mental stumble, you have just killed her two sons. Oh, that is near enough to make you laugh. Perhaps she will not be so ready to make _her_ peace with _you._ Though you’ve killed only one child of her body and one child not of her body. Are you not her child, her _first_ child, if not of her body? The one brother, the less-stupid one. He was not Odin’s and not hers, clear as day, yet he was as spoiled and entitled a prince as you ever saw. Not much of a loss in your eyes, though you suppose you don’t give enough credit for what a mother’s feelings may be.

But the All-Mother was _your_ mother when you left childhood and when she sent you to war for the first time at your father’s side. She was mother to you while she was wife to Odin Ginnarr and Odin Vidurr. She knows how your father earned those names and stayed loyal and faithful to him despite that knowledge. Will she make so few allowances for the woman who was her daughter?

Pointless wondering. You will find out when you see her. She is intelligent enough to understand, you know she is.

“Skurge,” you say, and wait as he scrambles to catch up. “Frigga. Tell me where she is.”

“The All-Mother? She, ah, well. She died a few years back, what with the fight that—”

Ah.

Yes, yes. You let him ramble on and fill the silence as you walk, but that’s all the information you need. That… is a bit of a loss, you will allow. You had begun to fall into that trap of _hope_ , you realize. You had let yourself begin to _hope_ that Frigga would shoulder some of the burden of ruling. Foolishness. You should know better.

And as little as you’re listening to Skurge, you hear enough to know you can blame her death on the two little princelings. Svartalfheim and its warriors, yes, _fine,_ they may have struck the blow, but you know full well where you can assign _blame._

To think, here you were, wondering if Frigga would resent you for the deaths of her sons. That _is_ a good joke. Though perhaps now you do regret killing them, just a little. If nothing else, you ended things far too quickly.

You think Skurge picks up on your foul mood as you approach your palace, which is good, or you might have been tempted to set him aside as well, and rebuild Asgard from true ashes. His story trails off into nothing, he drops a few paces behind you to skulk along in silence, and you could almost forget he’s even there.

The quiet almost-familiarity as you approach your throne is nearly enough to soothe you. The palace is changed, yes, but less than you’d feared. No new conquests to furnish new riches, you suppose. Irritating in its own way, but you could almost imagine you’re returning home after a short war in another land.

That all falls away from you as you step to your throne and see the murals. The insult feels almost like a physical blow. You nearly laugh out loud with disbelief. To be set aside as a shameful chapter in your histories, to have scholars shake their heads and cluck their tongues over the tales of you. You’d expected that. You’d never expected even your father to be so shameless as to pretend they never happened at all.

The anger burns away in your stomach. No wonder you have gone unrecognized, no wonder your own brothers did not know you, no wonder your people tried to fight. You refuse to look at the pretty little pictures of your spoiled baby brothers wasting their lives and birthrights in these frivolous, _idiotic_ pursuits. You bring down the ceiling with hardly a second thought. Behind you, you area aware of Skurge flinching away, but you cannot take your eyes from the ceiling.

 _Here,_ hidden away, is the palace of your youth. Whatever lies Odin told later, he wasn’t quite so cowardly as to destroy this piece of truth. To cover it, hide it away, deny its existence, he may have been capable of that. It’s some slight comfort that he would leave these murals intact, some slight comfort to imagine the scrolls bearing the histories of your wars still exist, in some walled-off library. You are almost too angry to speak, that this is _all_ the comfort left to you. But you will not stand for these lies to go on, where here is the truth of the place you have earned, earned through blood and _death._

Even then, you refuse to stand here being reminded of Odin’s lies and shame. You stalk away, letting Skurge trail behind you. You remember the way to your father’s treasures as clearly as if you’d walked the path only yesterday. You remember when he would carry you down here and hold your hand as he recited the old histories and songs, teaching you everything Asgard has won through in fire and conquest. You remember every feast where he returned from war and you begged him to tell you which treasures he’d brought home this time. You would ask him how much longer until he let you ride to war with him, and he would laugh and tell you that the time would come soon enough, and that your place was secure when Asgard would never be forced to turn from war and death. He would tease you, asking what you were the goddess of again?

How quickly he forgot.

You aren’t so surprised to find the passage at the end of the treasure room closed off. You are… disappointed. But there are only so many times your father can continue to surprise you with his lack of honor. It should shame him. It shames _you._ Countless times he told you this, taught you, made you repeat it to him. _What is Asgard’s greatest treasure? Its people._

He used to end every visit with a solemn walk through the tombs, from the first time he carried you down here, with the sounds of feasting and revelry echoing through the hallways behind you, across years and years, until you stood at his shoulder, as tall as he was, a woman grown and ready to make war at his side.

The Eternal Flame has graced the hallway since you can remember. It called to you since before you were properly aware of your own nature. But from the first time you tried to tell your father what you could do, walking through the tombs, feeling the quiet press of Death around you and the weight of _potential,_ he shook his head. _Our warriors served and fell in battle,_ he told you. _They have earned their rest and their place in Valhalla, and we do honor to their lives, but our claim on them has ended._

It never quite satisfied you, but you could bide by his decision. But now… You have little enough reason to trust _anything_ Odin ever taught you, to start. And when you have seen what your father has done, how can you so easily forget these warriors, _true_ warriors, who fought loyally and faithfully, who served the throne, yet never were a part of the weakened _thing_ your father reduced Asgard to?

You don’t bother with the staircase. You go through the floor. A handful of the Eternal Flame is more than enough for what _you_ are. This chamber is unchanged in truth, none of the lies of the throne, the same familiar setting of your childhood. The quiet whisper of Death surrounds you as it ever did, but now… the dead obey you, legions of faithful warriors rising at your command, the Eternal Flame sustaining their bodies where old rotted flesh cannot. Fenris rises under your hand as well, his eyes settling on you with old familiar recognition, the recognition that has eluded you at every other step in this wretched imitation of Asgard.

You haven’t the patience for bringing the city to heel at that point. You linger on the throne for some hours, waiting for the comfort of command to settle into its proper place. But it will not come. And you have had _enough._ You earned your place as Odin’s heir through blood, and you will earn your place on the throne the same way, if need be. Asgard will not recognize you as her queen? You’ll see how long that lasts when the other realms bend the knee and pledge loyalty to your rule.

Thinking through your forthcoming conquest is a much more pleasant way to pass the time. Showing your favor to Skurge takes a scant few minutes, inquiring after the state of matters in your city takes a few more. You tire of Gungnir in less than an hour. Putting down the sad little attempt at a citizens’ rebellion barely takes an afternoon. But _war._ It has been far too long since you had a reason to think on war.

Vanaheim, you think, as you assemble your legions of the dead. Svartalfheim and Jotunheim are too reduced to pose a decent challenge. Conquering Midgard will impress no-one. A war on Muspelheim would be dreadfully tedious way to begin things. Perhaps Vanaheim. Vanaheim is soft and complacent, with riches enough that you can bring home treasure to begin remaking your palace in _your_ image instead of your father’s.

It is a melancholy thought to realize that this is the first war you’ll have fought without Heimdall’s Sight at the Bifrost to tell you what lies ahead as you lead your armies out. It was a familiar routine. A last consultation with him before he sent the Bifrost forth for you, and then being left with the freedom to do battle secure in the knowledge that he kept his station for you. He faithfully kept his watch as you did war, his Sight on the battlefield.

You spend most of the march to the bridge wandering through those old memories. A waste, but one you can hardly bring yourself to regret. You wonder— It would be something if Heimdall was near enough to have Seen your return and to make his way back to his station by now. To have his eyes on you, and to have true, loyal warriors at your back, it would be the best parts of the wars of your youth. It’s a silly thought, but one that could easily become fact. To take up his station again without a word to you, it _would_ be like him, just as when you were both young and you could never quite tell if he was teasing.

Heimdall isn’t at his station.

Neither is Hofund.

It’s possibly the most infuriating thing that could have happened, shy of Odin’s miraculous resurrection. Skurge darts around you, peering into the corners of the room, looking for the sword. You already know it’s gone. You want to know how. You want to know _w_ _ho._

You aren’t quite so furious that you take off your anger on Skurge or your warriors. You are sorely tempted, but you have not lost quite so much control of yourself. Careless. You assumed that the Aesir were intelligent enough to realize they shouldn’t challenge you in this way. You’d assumed that after you’d killed their soldiers and all the citizens who wanted to play at being soldiers, the rest might have begun to _understand._ They’ve had more than a day where Hofund stood unguarded to do as they will. But the sword can’t be far. You doubt anyone left in the city has the means to destroy it, and certainly none of them have the means to flee with it.

What you wouldn’t give for Heimdall’s Sight now. Still, as efficient as that solution would be, you can’t deny that it is _profoundly_ satisfying to send your warriors out into the city to search out the scattered remaining citizens.

It takes a long time. Too long. Enough for the satisfaction to wear off and impatience to set in. The weight of Death you can feel centered on your palace and the path to the Bifrost is soothing, but the deaths you can feel now and in occasional ones and twos, scattered through the city and out among the forest. Some of your soldiers fall, you can feel their portion of Death return to you as they’re defeated, but no significant number. It’s comfort to know that as weak as Asgard may be, Odin did not manage to strip the spirit from them entirely. And still, you find nothing of the sword, not even any knowledge or rumor about where Hofund could be hidden or who took it.

More frustrating still, there’s still no whisper of Heimdall to be found. He knows you are returned. He must. He can See any and all of Asgard’s people, and he has _told_ you how clearly you stand out to his Sight. Surely he can’t be dead. As little as you think of Odin, he’s too intelligent and too selfish to simply destroy such a powerful weapon. If Heimdall was on Asgard, he would have returned to you by now. Could the answer be that he is _not_ on Asgard?

It is… strange to consider, but it makes more sense than that Odin would have seen him dead. Your two little brothers and your father were wasting time on Midgard for whatever reason. And as _wrong_ as it feels for someone other than Heimdall to take a station at the Bifrost, you can’t deny that it can be done.

All the more reason for you to find Hofund and set out to make war. Which realm would Heimdall fall back to, if he was in exile? Vanaheim would bore you to tears, but he might have found it tolerable. Or perhaps Nidavellir. The Dwarves know enough of Asgard to recognize his talents for what they are and he would have ways to pass the time.

It has been so _long._ If Heimdall were as constant as you would have expected, you would have been sure of finding him on Asgard. So much else has changed that you shouldn’t be surprised to be disappointed in this as well, but it is bitter to think that your father did as much as he could to ensure that nothing of your home was left to you.

Maybe Heimdall would be on Midgard, if he’d been keeping watch over the two little princelings. He could See them from any land, but he would be powerless to protect them from such a distance. You have to laugh at the idea that either of them would be at all capable of protecting themselves. And… you can see Odin assigning him that duty. If he was cast into exile, Odin may not have _ordered_ him to take it on, but Heimdall was as conscious of duty as any warrior could ever hope to be. It’s a degrading chore for him, given his abilities. But you can practically hear him telling you softly that the honor of the task would be of less importance than its necessity.

It is infuriating to think of him keeping watch over two spoiled, useless infants. And all this after they grew up with him keeping watch over the land. From their births, he kept his station as Asgard’s first and best guard, setting the best example of what they might have become— It brings back memories of being young and seeking out your father’s best warriors to demand they show you how to fight. You have trouble imagining either of your brothers doing the same.

Of course, Heimdall didn’t do that either. You only came to know him when he was nearly grown, but he had a talent for quietly absorbing knowledge and lessons, and you remember picking silly fights with him from frustration that his calm, quiet approach seemed to win him better results than your own demands. Ah, memories. He wasn’t willing to soothe your impatience then, and given what you saw of your brothers, you doubt he’d be any more willing to cater to their tempers either. You could see him waiting patiently for them to come for him for education and guidance, but it is difficult to imagine him chasing them to Midgard. Still—

No. Speculation. _Useless._ If you continue in this vein, you’ll be convincing yourself that Heimdall must be hiding away in each of the Nine Realms, and that’s before you manage to come up with a persuasive line of reasoning for why he might make his way to another corner of the universe altogether.

“Heimdall,” you say out loud, alone in your throne room. “I know you can see me.”

You wait with some expectation for a reply. He can do that much, even separated from Hofund and the Bifrost. Nothing. For a moment you think you feel a whisper across your mind, but when you try to chase it, it slips away from you and you can’t quite tell if you imagined it in the first place.

You don’t bother lying you yourself and pretending that it isn’t temper that drives you to round up the Aesir your warriors have captured in front of your palace, and demand answers from them. You could have patience. Or you could find someone to serve as an _example._ My, you wonder which of those you could possibly choose.

And it gives you a chance to test the mettle of your new executioner. For all he says of being a warrior, the little of his history you’ve bothered to learn is of battles in… other lands. But it is so very easy to slaughter other races. If he wants to be your executioner, he can prove that he’s willing to kill his own people. And if he isn’t willing to do that, he’s shown himself to be as disloyal and faithless as the rest of them, and he can die with everyone else who has refused to serve.

Still, you’re willing to be gentle. He _is_ still the first and only Aesir to properly recognize your rule. So when nobody answers his questions about where Hofund has been taken, you pick a pretty little thing out of the crowd, one he’d never have the nerve to choose himself. You’re patient while she kneels before him and trembles, and he hesitates and hesitates.

Instead of punishing him for failure to obey, you say, “Well, executioner?”

But at this point, you’re not really expecting this to reach such a bloody end. You’re keeping half an eye on the young man who tried to lunge after the woman when your warriors grabbed her. And just as your executioner prepares to swing his axe, the man reaches his breaking point. He shoves his way through the crowd and cries, _“Wait!”_

Heimdall.

_Heimdall._

You can hardly speak for fury as you stalk out of the city and into the hills. The deaths of the captured citizens, the captured _pathetic_ excuses for Aesir behind you, they bloom hot and sweet in your awareness as you leave the city. Skurge follows along behind you, practically dripping shame and uncertainty, but you have no patience for coddling him right now.

Heimdall, here.

On Asgard.

Working _against you,_ stealing Hofund, keeping you from the Bifrost, spiriting away your people to hide them from your tender mercies, destroying your soldiers—

There’s no articulating the betrayal you feel right now. Heimdall, who has Seen every moment of your history, who has Seen every moment of your return. Heimdall, who has Seen how legitimate your claim is and how unjustly Odin treated you. Heimdall, who has Seen the shameful way Odin weakened his own people, how he tried to hide away his own history, who has Seen how he tried to hide away his own _daughter and heir._

He’s Seen it all, and this is his answer. Not to stand by you. Not to even acknowledge the truth of what you say. Not to even show his face.

He has Seen Odin, he has Seen your two pitiful, pathetic little brothers, he has Seen all of it and _still_ he turns from you.

How faithless is he, you wonder. Did he set you aside when your father did? Was he ever true to you in the first place? Did he _ever_ bear you any loyalty, or was it always an easy lie you were too willing to believe? Every time you slipped away to the Bifrost, every time you kissed him and set his hands to your body, did he know he would choose Odin over you? When your father sent the Valkyrior, would he have been among their number if Odin had asked? You would have killed him. You _would._ No pity for a childhood friend sent on Odin’s orders, none of _that_ for a faithless lover who was only waiting for a chance to choose loyalty to your father over loyalty to you.

Even once you stand outside the great doorway to the mountain sanctuary, you can’t feel the people hidden away yourself. You can feel Death, and there is none of that within the mountain. Even looking for it, there are no little deaths to give you a hint of their presence. Certainly no people, but no animals, large or small, no little lives where their ending could possibly draw your attention.

 _He_ saw you as Death, he said. You thought it was beautiful and _true._ You showed him the truth of that, and then showed him far more. Showed him more than he could have ever Seen. This is how you are repaid. _He_ is the only one who could have warned the people how to stay safely hidden, the only one who knew your own little way of Seeing. It’s nothing to compare to his Sight, but a secret you shared with him, a secret you _trusted_ him with, back long ago when you once believed you could trust him.

You destroy the entrance to the sanctuary without a second thought. You care nothing for saving a sad little refuge for cowards to hide away and refuse to face fate. You’ll have to see about bringing down the sanctuary itself as soon as you have the opportunity.

The people are fled, of course. You’d expect nothing else, with Heimdall working against you.

But there are fires still burning, possessions discarded all about the cavern, any manner of signs of a hasty, frantic escape. The doorway at the other end of the cavern still lies open. They are not far ahead of you. No matter what Heimdall has Seen, he could not See your decision until you learned that he was here.

You don’t rush as you make your way across the sanctuary to look out the exit. There’s no sign of your people in the forest at the base of the mountain, only the quiet ranks of trees standing with their branches spread to hide the land below. It makes no difference. There are so few options left to them. They’re running for the Bifrost, of course. You might not know where they are at this moment, but they have nowhere else to hide, and they have such a very slight lead on you. Heimdall will See you coming for them. And he will have nothing he can do.

There is no need to rush yourself now, and you can afford a moment to steady yourself. To look idly over the forest and try to remember the days of your childhood, what paths through the woods you might choose to lead a crowd of desperate people towards hopeful safety. What path you might take if you knew a Goddess of Death was hard on your heels.

Before you can make a decision, you _feel_ Gungnir. The vibration of it echoes through the mountain, reverberating through the cavern. Skurge flinches, but you turn to look back the way you came, towards the palace. The presumption of the move is infuriating, but in a way that… centers you. Odin is dead, you felt the truth of his Death in the air when you returned from imprisonment. This suggests that you weren’t quite as thorough with your _dear_ little brothers as you’d expected. You ought to be angry with yourself for such an oversight. But if you have an opportunity to kill even one of your brothers again, you certainly aren’t going to turn it down. This time, you can make it _last._

“Skurge,” you say. “Lead my soldiers to the Bifrost. Retrieve Hofund.” And then there’s no real reason to say any more. But you want Heimdall to See what is coming for him and the people he betrayed you to protect, and when you are done with your brother, you will make him _see it._ “Leave Heimdall alive.”

He makes his way from the sanctuary quickly. You take a little more time, looking over the forest a few moments longer before turning away and moving back across the cavern. Every few steps, Gungnir vibrates through the land, echoing up through your bones. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, and set off for the palace. You’ll take care of your brother quickly enough. And then you will show Heimdall what it means to be a Goddess of _Death._

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/169244349986/take-your-sweetheart-down-to-the-river)


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